Utopia
by Writer of a Thousand Colors
Summary: "The Nations – those personified countries who have all the time in the world, centuries upon centuries– can never understand what grief really, truly feels like." It's all just a misunderstanding, but a dangerous one.
1. Chapter 1

He does not like the silence of the country. He grew up in a bustling metropolis; he grew up surrounded by the chatter of people and the squealing of brakes. At night, puddles of dull white light from the streetlamps provided shelter against the crushing blackness with the glow of houselights to illuminate the streets. There was food in the freezer and a heater in the basement and all of life was good.

But the bombs took it all – took the chattering people and the cars with the squealing brakes. The bombs took the streetlamps, the houses, the freezers and the heaters. The bombs took his sister, his mother, his best friend and leveled his world to stacks of bricks at the corners of streets covered in rubble and old skeletons lying in the road. The scattering remains of the bomb, the radiation, seeped into the one thing that remained of his old world – his watch, given to him by his mother for his twentieth birthday – and nearly took him too.

Now, he is weak. His hair fell out and there is an ugly burn on his wrist where his watch once was. His bone ache dully within him.

Now, he has no one left.

Now, he is alone.

He tells his story in a slow, measured tone – no emotion (he doesn't have any), no extra details (they're unnecessary). The woman sitting cross-legged next to him looks like she's about to cry; her eyes are shining, almost black except for the flicker of orange from the dancing flames. She has not lost so much – her family, yes, but she still has her friends and her body, so she does not understand what having truly nothing left is like.

She has grief, however, and rage, and that makes her useful. She wants the people who gave her this grief to pay nearly as much as he does.

"And that," he concludes, leaning back slowly in his wooden lawn chair because his muscles are starting to shake from the exhaustion of holding him upright, "Is why we must wipe this world free of the Nations. They must suffer as we did, lose as we did. They must know of everything they have done to us and we must repay them tenfold."

The people are him nod, shadows dancing across their faces as the fire leaps into the air. They have all lost something. The Nations – those personified countries who have all the time in the world, centuries upon centuries– can never understand what grief really and truly feels like.

He doesn't know where all the Nations are, and he admits this freely. Lithuania is back in his own land, about ten in England, and two up in what was once upon a time Scandinavia. He doesn't know how to make them suffer, make them pay for the pain they have caused. He knows nothing, except that they have to try to do something to make the Nations understand the grief and pain they have caused to what remains of mankind.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

**A variety of reasons mean I'm just going to rewrite this. Anyway. Expect delays; my exams are also coming up but I'll try to post.  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

Norway is sitting on the very end of the pier, ice blue eyes staring out at the calm gray sea westwards, when Denmark finds him. Gray clouds hang low; fall chills the world and the sound of gentle waves and seagulls cawing overhead mingles with the creak of rotting wood as Denmark slowly approaches the other. Norway's hair glitters, gold caught in dirt, skin the color of milk, nose as red as a cherry – he's ill again. His clothes are patched and frayed; he looks worn, tired, with dark bags underneath the piercing ice of his eyes.

Denmark knows why he is here, sitting on a pier and staring to the west with eyes that burn with hot tears that Norway has cried a thousand times too many but will cry a thousand more. Denmark knows, because he does the same thing – not as frequently as Norway, but often. It's quintessential to Norway's sanity that he does that, so Denmark is not here to drag him inside, nor did he come to offer words of comfort, as they'd be meaningless anyway.

He stops just behind Norway, staring out into the gray sea with the thick gray clouds hanging overhead, threatening to empty their contents upon their heads. The air is heavy with salt and sadness. The wood moans beneath Denmark's heavy black books as he shifts his weight, toying with his mop of straw blonde hair before heaving a heavy sigh and settling down next to Norway, legs hanging off the end and just barely brushing the surface of the cold water below.

They sit, waiting for the sun.

As it begins to lighten – slivers of molten orange breaking the gray and turning the world to gold – Norway shudders, the breath rattling through his bony frame like an earthquake, shaking the core of Denmark's world.

Normally, what happens is there is silence, other than the lapping of the waves against the shore. They sit, and watch, and once the sun is over the horizon and turning the sea to a vat of liquid fire, Norway will silently get to his feet, carefully balancing his weight on the balls of his feet like a dancer about to leap as he navigates the rotting wooden dock, then the cold dirt, the soft grass crushed by dew and frost, the gravel outside of their little hut – some times with Denmark at his side, others with him inside, trying to force their old stove to life so he can make Norway a warm breakfast to fight the chill.

But today, Norway speaks, his voice a melody with the waves, the seagulls, the splashing of the water beneath him and the gentle rustling of their worn clothes. "I had a dream about Iceland."

Denmark can't think of anything to say in response, so he slings his arm around Norway's thin, waif like shoulders and pulls him closer to his own smothering warmth. Norway goes along with it, not fighting as he wraps his fingers around Denmark's muscular arm and digs his fingers into the thick cloth of his jacket.

"He looked just like I remembered. His hair, his clothes, the way he would set his mouth when he was confused but too embarrassed to ask for clarification," Norway breathes, tilting his head back so it can rest on Denmark's shoulder. "Except…I don't remember his eyes. What color they were. They shape they had. My eyes were on his face and it was wrong." Denmark doesn't remember, either. There are so many little things they're forgetting, and eye color is one of those things that are slipping through the cracks.

There is another heartbeat when all they can hear is the endless monotony of the waves, and then Norway gasps, sounding as if he is collapsing, dying. "Oh god, I miss him!" he wails, burying his face in his hands, shaking so hard that Denmark fears he will shiver himself off the pier. He wraps both his arms around Norway and rests his chin on his head as Norway cries. "He wa-was my little brother, Denmark! I wa-was suppose to de-defend him but how c-come I lived and he…" Norway trails off again as new shudders overwhelm him. Denmark feels hot, salty tears trailing down his arm, sinking into the stiff cloth of his shirt.

Abruptly, Norway's back stiffens and he scoots away from Denmark, putting space between them. Denmark glances over at him as he brushes his greasy hair away from his face. Norway's face is taut, lined with tears.

"I know," Denmark tells him, sadly, tiredly. "Oh god, Norway, I know. I miss Iceland too. And Finland. I even miss that bastard Sweden. I want my family back as much as you do because I love them and I miss them and we're going insane without them." They are, they truly are. Denmark does not know how much more of this frigid silence he can take. Norway is not loud by nature, and Denmark cares enough about him to mold his own habits to suit his, but he feels like he will explode if he can't do the things he did before the war – get drunk, gamble with Prussia, invade Switzerland and try to zoom down his Alps completely naked.

Norway's eyes flicker towards him, painfully blue and icy cold, but for the tiny spark of fire and warmth burning in their depths that dates back to happier times, when Norway didn't look so drained or sad.

"Norge, he might have been your brother, but he was also my family," Denmark tells him, reaching out a large, warm hand and placing it on top of Norway's cool, dry one with the fine boned fingers that are best suited to artists, not a fighter, a worker, like Norway is. Norway needs the big strong hands, the wide shoulders, the broad chest that belong to fighters, for that is what he is at the end of the day. Norway is not fragile, so it's ridiculous any part of him should appear to be so. "I miss him too."

Norway wipes at tears with the back of his hand. "Just…god, I don't know. In the dream…I saw everyone again. Iceland, and Finland, and Sweden. You too. And it was like old times, before the war. We were…" he trails off, looking confused for a moment before he remembers what he was saying, "…happy. 'Cause god, all I want is Finland's insane inventions and Sweden's weird food and Iceland's disturbing happiness over that creepy museum of his and…" Norway seems to realize he is rambling, and his jaw slams shut, the bright spark in the depth of his blue eyes dimming.

Denmark's hand grasps Norway's tightly, squeezes. Norway's face breaks into the tiniest of smiles. Even through his tears, it's a glorious sight, and Denmark feels like the midnight sun is shining upon him – it's the way he feels whenever Norway smiles that small, warm smile at him. "I know," he says simply.

They sit in silence for a bit longer, watching the sun fade from fiery orange to a liquid gold, bringing light to their world. The clouds of gray lift, turning the sea to a deep, rich lapis lazuli blue, flecked the silver of sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water. Clouds scatter, revealing an achingly blue sky that, for all its glory, cannot hope to match the purity of Norway's eyes.

Norway sighs after a little bit and struggles to his feet. He stumbles; his limbs are stiff from sitting on the hard dock for as long as he did. "I'm going to go make breakfast," he says. His voice has lost the slightly hysterical, lost note it contained earlier; now it is melodious in its unwavering monotone. "Come in soon or I'll throw yours out."

Denmark manages to bark a laugh; the sound is like a gunshot and it echoes. "Love you too!" he calls as Norway glides down the rotting wooden pier, poised on the balls of his feet like a dancer about to run and take flight. The planks creak beneath his weight, mingling with the cries of the seagulls overhead.

Denmark gazes out over the blue of the sea – he pretends for a moment that he can see all the way to what remains of Iceland. He and Norway have not gone there yet; not since the war ended. There will be nothing but destruction and although they both know Iceland is gone they would prefer to live with the fantasy that he was just on a trip and would return home soon. Similarly, they have not gone to see what was left of Finland.

Greenland and the Faeroes visited every once in a while, bringing with them survival advice and company. They both had gone to check Iceland and Finland and had returned with ashy faces. Denmark and Norway did not ask what they had seen; in this case, ignorance was a blessing, one that neither wanted to throw away.

Greenland is due for a visit soon; it's been several months since they've last seen him. He tries to drop by once or twice a year, to make sure they're doing well and that their fragile sanity isn't cracking further. Faeroes visits more often; he had come for two days just the week before, assisting Norway with canning the last of the fruits from summer. They gave him twenty cans of jam in thanks; a treat for the winter ahead.

Life is not perfect, Denmark thinks. Life will probably never be perfect again. But they are making do, best they can.

He's about to get to his feet to go join Norway in the creation of their breakfast when a shovel slams onto the back of his head, knocking him off the dock and into the cold water below. Blood mingles with salt; his head is stinging and there is so much pain and he can't swim – he's sinking away from the light and he can't do this; this will leave Norway alone and Norway can't be left…

He blacks out as strong, rough hands grip his wrists, but it's too late; he knows no more.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

**It's finally back xD I apologize to everyone who has been waiting for this...that took way too long.**


	3. Chapter 3

The world has ended – gone up in smoke and flames, burned to the bare rocks around them – but England still considers himself a gentleman. There is no place for fine porcelain teacups and elegant embroidery in this new, harsh reality, but England prides himself on being polite, kind, and one that people in need turn to.

He wonders what the gentlemanly thing to do when he opens the rough wooden door America made from driftwood found on a beach and a starving boy, ribs protruding from his skin, covered in mud and dripping rainwater, stumbles in, tripping on the mat and crashing down onto the floor.

He doesn't realize the identity of his guest until he's latched onto his trouser leg and started sobbing, and cold fear dawns on England, racing through his veins and numbing him straight down to his core, when he realizes he's never seen Norway cry before. He can't make out what Norway is saying through his blubbering and the shudders that make his shoulders tremble so hard that it seems like Norway will shake himself to pieces, but England snatches the towel hanging on the coat hanger next to the door (America left his things in the oddest places) and kneels next to him, gently wiping away the muck.

"Norway," he says softly, scrubbing gingerly at the grime on his cheeks and trying to stop him from pitching forward, "What is it?"

Norway gasps for air, choking on his hysterics. His eyes are red from weeping. There's dark blood trickling out of sores on the sides and bottoms of his feet over old wounds, shoes worn down to shreds, toes missing. His clothes are torn, and scratches trail up and down his arms.

"Denmark is gone," he manages to say, shuddering as the words are ripped from him, and he gasps again, hunching forward, arms wrapping around his skeletal stomach. England has to grab him by the shoulders and force him back up to a sitting position. Norway's breaths are so short and hurried that England must wonder how it is that he is getting enough air.

He isn't; after a moment of England trying to pry more information out of him, Norway's eyes suddenly roll back in his head, revealing the popped veins in his eyes and the dull pink where there should be white, and he crumples into England, leaving trails of mud along the lines of England's best jacket and trouser. His breathing slows, but continually hitches – even in a dead faint, Norway's grief is overwhelming him.

England slouches back against the stone wall, cradling Norway to him, and wonders what he is suppose to do.

...

He hauls Norway to the old sofa France found on the edge of what once upon a time was London and what England himself fixed up with new fabrics, stolen from the ruins of homes scattered across his fallen city. He drops his fellow Nation onto the tattered couch, shoves a floppy pillow under his filthy head and covers him as best he can with a ratty blanket, before he races to fetch the others.

He tears through the little village they've built up in the years since the war has ended. Small stone houses, tiny, straggling vegetable and herb gardens, a school house where England himself teaches the children of this war-torn village history and literature during the winter months. America should be there now, guiding the children through the wonders of the universe and the atoms, but England doesn't need him for this, much as he would like to burst in there and throw himself in America's arms, let him be the hero and take care of everything, figure out what is wrong with Norway and where Denmark has gone. No, England needs to go to the woodshop.

He dashes past families, past men and woman going about their day – making clothes, gardening, trading vegetables for freshly slaughtered beef and pork. They don't look at him when he runs by – they know what he is, and while they are grateful to him and his fellow Nations for their help in the disaster after the War That Destroyed Everything, their existence and their age makes them all uncomfortable, so they don't actively seek out their company.

Sweden and Prussia are on their break when he finally reaches the woodshop – they sit on the front step, munching on thick sandwiches made of a poor quality bread and talking quietly about their latest projects. They don't look up until England skids to a stop in front of him, feet catching on the gravel of the root and almost tipping over, overbalanced. He would have fallen, had Sweden's hand not shot out to steady his elbow. England brushes it away, bends over, and hacks, spitting into the bushes lining the walls of the woodshop.

Concern darkens the mischief in Prussia's eyes; England only comes to the woodshop when there's a problem. "What's going on?" he asks, rising half to his feet, dropping his sandwich as he reaches out to grasp England's shoulder.

England hacks again, shakes his head, and shoves Prussia's hand off his shoulder. "Norway," he gasps out, pushing his sweaty bangs out of his face.

Sweden's eyebrows knit together. He removes his cracked glasses and cleans them on the hem of his faded football jersey – they'd found it in what once upon a time had been a shopping mall. "Norway's up in Scandinavia," he mumbles gruffly. "With Denmark."

England shakes his head, and reaches out a hand to steady himself against the splintering wood of the shop's door. "No he isn't," he manages, massaging his chest, trying to get rid of the knots built up there, "He's in my house. Bloody, sobbing...something about Denmark."

Sweden's lips thin. Prussia glances worriedly at his business partner – he knows, behind Sweden's dislike of Denmark, there is also a twisted sort of concern and affection. Sweden will pummel Denmark into the ground, but will hurt anyone who attempts to do the same.

"What's wrong with Denmark now?" Sweden grumbles, getting slowly to his feet, body stiff and joint aching.

England shrugs. "All I got out of Norway was that Denmark's gone. He fainted, so I put him on my sofa under a blanket and came to get you." Sweden nods, tersely, and strides off in the direction of England's home, hands stiff at his sides. "The door's open; you won't need to beat it down!" England calls after him, and then he collapses to sit on the stone step. Prussia hesitates, stares at Sweden's retreating back as he disappears behind the corner of a house, and then settles himself down next to England.

"Do you remember that group that came trading here four months back, from where Latvia used to be?" he asks quietly, locking his fingers together and resting them on top of his knees. England shoves his hair away from his face and nods, wiping the sweat away from his eyes. "They mentioned...um, not really sure how to phrase this, but there's this group of people that blame us for the war."

"Wait, you mean, like, Germany? Germany wasn't one of the main instigators, best as I can recall."

"No! No no no. Not me and West. Us." Prussia gestures at himself, then England, and then waves his hand in the general direction of the village, the home they've built from scratch, pulled together with blood and tears and far too much loss. "Us," he repeats, "The Nations."

England looks indignant. "We had almost no real political power!" he says fiercely, combing his hands through his too-long hair, anxious, angry. "Bloody hell...what the hell. Do they think we wanted that war? We lost just as much as any human."

Prussia shrugs, and tries not to remember what he lost, in the War that Destroyed Everything. He reaches down, picks up his sandwich, brushes the dirt off it and takes a bite, ignoring England's reprimanding "tisk" and glare. "It was only rumors, so I didn't think much of it at the time. Didn't ask for more details." He scowls as he chews. "That was stupid of me."

England snorts and puts his head in his hands. "I don't want more fighting," he says wearily. Prussia glances at him as he takes another bite of his sandwich, then goes back to staring out what remains of once proud London. They've cleaned up much of it – most of the rubble went to building the village, and most of what could be salvaged, they have. But there are still old walls, crumbling and ancient, covered in creeping mosses and vines.

"Me neither," he says, dropping his gaze to his sandwich. He hurls the rest of it into the thick bushes across the road from them, and they don't speak, wondering what will come, what shall be learned, when Norway wakes.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

**...And this is so late xD Anyone still remember this?**

**Unedited; just wrote it in half an hour. Corrections are much appreciated.**


	4. Chapter 4

Prussia's hands twist around the little wooden block, knife digging out chunks and letting them drop to the floor, letting them clump together in a rough pyramid form that continually falls to pieces and gets under the rough rug. The mess is bothering England, but he refrains from snapping and just glares at the small pile of woodchips. The block is starting to resemble a horse, and Prussia keeps his eyes fixed on his fingers, refusing to look elsewhere. Sweden's lips are tight, almost as bleached white as his knuckles, and he's determinedly not looking at Prussia's creation, keeping his gaze fixed to Norway's face.

Norway's voice is very quiet and rough, almost scratchy, as he responds to England's careful questions. "Denmark went missing in April. We were on the pier, and I left, and…" he trails off. Sweden wipes a tear that begins to spill over from Norway's dull blue eyes. Norway doesn't notice. "…He never came to breakfast. Or lunch, or dinner, or just...No one had seen him. He didn't come. I waited three days, and then I ran."

"To here?" England asks quietly. Norway nods. Prussia's knife slips as red eyes peer through a fine fringe of almost-platinum hair, and it jerks out from the wooden block and gashes his thumb. He swears and slips out of the room, fingers raining red on England's floor. Norway watches him leave, mouth parted as if in the middle of speaking, watching the blood drip into the cracks of the floor, and England is compelled to repeat his question.

"Oh. Um, yes."

England leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and balances his chin on the tips of his pointer finger. "How did you get here? Horse? Boat?"

"I walked." Norway sounds so exhausted, and the explanation certainly explains the blood and blisters dotting his feet, the mud dried between his torn and worn toes. Sweden's free hand, resting on his thigh, clenches, veins and bones sticking out in a clear contrast to his white skin. "It…um, it got easier, I think. The pain kind of helped. It made me not think about Denmark as much – at least, not until I collapsed."

Sweden's jaw is clamped shut, his expression unreadable but for the slightest hint of jealousy. The ache of loss never quite fades, and Sweden has lost more than most can even comprehend. England pokes him, gently, and mouths _breathe_ at him. Sweden just scowls in return, and England rolls his eyes before turning back to Norway. "When did you last eat?"

Norway's eyebrows draw together as he ponders that. "Three…no, four days…no…I don't know, somewhere around three to four days ago."

"That's not good, Norway," England says tightly. Sweden nods silently, and then he clambers to his feet.

"I'll fetch toast," he mumbles, gingerly draping the hand he'd been clutching across Norway's stomach. "_För fan, Norge, sköt om dig,_" he mutters, stalking across the room, footsteps heavy and almost furious, the hunch of his shoulders screaming displeasure. The words mean nothing to England, but Norway manages a slight giggle, almost slightly hysterical in its pitch. He shifted on the couch, trying to pull himself up. England's glower gives him pause, and he sinks back down, features twisting with irritation.

"I am not a mere bairn, England; I am fully capable of taking care of myself," he grumbles as he slips back down, pulling the ratty blanket over him and smearing mud and dried blood all over the fabric.

It's a struggle not to smirk, so England settles for a dramatic rolling of his eyes. It just makes Norway scowl deeper. "I'm not!" he insists, tightening his grip on the blanket.

"I am aware of that, but you did choose to run to run here all the way from Denmark without a thought for your health, instead of doing the rational thing, such as sending a letter," he replies curtly.

Something shatters in Norway's gaze at that – it starts at the pupil, then spirals out; England can almost see the faded blue of Norway's eyes cracking, slipping, with something much darker and more sinister flashing from deep within. "You would do the same for America, or France, or Canada," Norway says quietly.

That brings pause. "Most likely, I would," he admits, twisting his fingers together and glancing at the kitchen – he can hear pans rattling and Prussia conversing with Sweden, curses mixed in with directions, and he wonders what they are doing.

Norway stares him – and this is not the gaze of a mortal, one who has seen horror and lived to speak of it. This is of a near immortal, who has lifetimes of horrors and lifetimes of betrayal, an immortal who has tortured and murdered and destroyed, and will most likely do so again if given the chance, and that is what makes England jerk to his feet and mutter about helping Sweden, because they have lived nightmares, millennia of them, and he has never seen a Nation yet who looks so devastated and destroyed as Norway does then.

He slips into the kitchen, where Sweden is standing at the stove, frying a thick, grainy bread in butter, eggs cracking merrily, and Prussia is chugging a glass of frothy milk, thumb swaddled in a bloody rag. England ducks into the pantry to find a tray, shutting the door half behind him in the pretense of searching so the others cannot see his face.

He leans his head against the shelf, staring at the label of a can of baby corn – one of the last; he's saving it for Canada and America's birthday next week as a treat, although France scoffs at him and waxes poetic about how he is sure the twins would much prefer a crepe than a can of old corn.

England is old, exceedingly so, has lived lifetimes beyond memory, and still, he does not think in all of his vast experience, all of his thousands and thousands of years, he has ever encountered something half so heartbreaking as lost, broken, bloody Norway with sores on his feet and ribs protruding from his chest, sobbing from grief, searching for one of the few links he still has to a time of serenity, if not happiness.

England cannot even begin to understand how that must feel.

He shudders and grabs the tray, locking the pantry behind him as he slips out.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

**Chapter three. They'll get longer soon; pacing picks up next chapter.**

**Okay, few questions answered from last chapter (I paraphrased, because I'm lazy): **

**_Why is Prussia working in the woodshop with Sweden? Isn't he too wild and destructive for that?_**

**In my headcanon, Prussia is a very complex character, very hard to understand. Yes, he is destructive, but the way I see him, after he was formally declared not a country, he's begun to have panic attacks. No one remembers Prussia that well, and with the destruction of so many books, there is a very good risk he'll fade entirely. So, he creates in order to have something of him left behind.**

**_What do you mean by fine clothes? How do you have fine clothes at the end of the world?_**

**This is set about fifteen years after America's entry in the Log. They've started trading and creating their own clothes again. The Nations still can recall how it is done.**

**Why Sweden in this chapter isn't looking at the horse Prussia is making is because it reminds him of his Dala horses, which are one of the symbols of Sweden, and in turn, that reminds him of Finland. He's a mite bitter about everything, and he's jealous that Norway still has Denmark, because Sweden has lost most everyone close to him, and the Danes and Norwegians and the Swedes have this odd three way rivalry...when I was living in Sweden, I went down to Denmark, spoke Swedish because I'm silly like that, and the lady I was ordering food from ignored me until I asked her in English xD**


End file.
